Clandestine
by Aspen Starlight
Summary: Mike's not the only one at Pearson Hardman with secrets. Harvey has more than his fair share of them himself. But some secrets are more deadly than others. Some secrets should be kept at all costs. Because if they aren't, everything could fall apart.
1. You Never Hear the Shot

**Title: **Clandestine

**Warnings: **Mild blood, gore, swearing in future chapters. Slightly AU.

**AN: ** So I have writer's block on another fic of mine, and figured maybe if I stepped away from it for a bit and worked on something else that might help. Odd reasoning, I know. But this fic and that one have somewhat similar premises so who knows. Anyway, I had this idea since I realized Gabriel Macht was in The Recruit (which I actually saw before I ever watched an episode of Suits, and is one of my favorite movies), and it was practically begging to be written. It's not a crossover. But, oh you'll see. :D And I know this chapter is short, but it's really more of a prologue than anything. This is also currently unbetaed.

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><p>Chapter One - You Never Hear the Shot That Takes You Down<p>

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><p>The man smiled pleasantly, silently conveying his thanks to the doorman holding the door, and strode into the building. It was mid-day, so the lobby was busier than it might have been at another time, but that was perfect for him. He'd use that to his advantage. That was part of the plan.<p>

Keeping his head down, he effortlessly glided through the throng of people, just another person in the crowd. He stood in line for the elevators, just like everyone else. When he finally got on, he waited for his floor just like everyone else, except he avoided looking up, even when he moved to get off.

The hallway was silent, unlike the lobby twenty floors below, as he walked down it. His eyes flickered from door to door, searching for the right number. Finally, he saw it, and set down his bag for a moment in order to pat down his pockets for the plastic key card. Gloved hands finally fished it out of his back pocket, and he held it in front of him for a moment, intelligent brown eyes scrutinizing it.

The plastic card was blank, no identifying marks on it whatsoever except for the thin magnetic strip running down one of the sides. It was a 'homemade' card; certainly not one given out to the tenants.

The black leather gloves he wore proved even more protection- his fingerprints or DNA wouldn't be left behind. Nothing could be traced back to him. He was a ghost. A specter, if you will. And that was the way it had to be.

Sighing quietly, he slid the key card through the lock, and a little green light lit up, indicating that it was now open. He shifted his grip on the black duffel bag he was carrying and cast a glance down the hallway, before opening the door and slipping into the room, the door shutting quietly behind him.

His brown eyes flickered over the room. Two double beds were both topped with a rather garish bedspread, a television was hanging from the opposite wall, there were two paintings in the room also hanging on the cream colored walls, and then there was the feature he was most interested in- the large glass window whose view was currently blocked by a deep red curtain. He'd use that to his advantage too. After all, he wanted to go as unseen as possible.

People didn't take kindly to looking out their window and seeing a sniper rifle pointed at them. Or at who they thought was themselves. His targets generally didn't even know he was there.

Until it was too late.

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><p>The New York skyline was beautiful. It was also the last thing he would ever properly see. As he stood in front of the large glass window in his apartment, sipping his expensive coffee and marveling at the way the sunlight hit the glass just right, he was killed.<p>

The bullet punched through the glass like a knife through butter, shattering it instantly. It continued it's journey and entered his chest, going straight through his heart and hitting his spine where it ricocheted off a bone, shattering it and severing his spinal cord in the process, then finally exiting out of his left back area to lodge in the carpeted floor. Blood and bits of gore showered the couch behind him, spraying out from the area of impact.

He noiselessly fell backwards, his upper body arching oddly without the support needed from his damaged spine. Hitting the floor with a sickening thud, and as a deep red began to spread across his expensive suit, he took one last shuddering breath, brown eyes fluttering closed.

The conscious last thought he had was how it would probably kill Rene to see a perfectly good suit ruined in such a messy way.


	2. The Road Less Traveled

**AN:** Thanks to all those that reviewed, favorited, and alerted this story so far! I'll get around to responding today sometime. In the meantime, here's the next chapter. I'm shooting for more frequent updates and slightly shorter chapters than I usually do. And if you haven't guessed by the end of this chapter, this fic is quite Harvey-centric, and focuses a lot more on his character than it will on Mike and his problems. At this point I don't think there will be any obvious pairings. But that may change.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Suits, or pretend to. I just like playing with the characters. And that sounded creepier than intended. Also, how the CIA is depicted here is not accurate. This is a work of fiction, so please keep that in mind.

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><p>Chapter Two – The Road Less Traveled<p>

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><p>He had planned it you know. Him and Jessica, actually. Planned everything out. He would go to Harvard, study pre-law, then law, and then work for the firm when he got his license. At the time, she had just started a law firm with Michael Hardman, and despite the fact that she could have easily not bought him on as her associate, she agreed to. He hadn't been sure just what he had done to deserve it.<p>

As he laid in bed twenty years later, staring up at the ceiling in thought, he realized he hadn't done _anything_ to deserve it. Not after that one night, ages ago. The night that had changed everything. Where his plan was shot to hell with a single three letter word, spoken to him by a man he had just met.

He can still hear the gruff, rumbling voice echoing in his head. Still see the frigid blue eyes that had seen too much surveying him in the dimly lit alley where he'd been cornered. Still make out the amused quirk of the man's lips that Harvey would come to realize meant trouble for anyone it was directed at. He still could feel the cool breeze that had fluttered through the alley and brushed across his sweaty skin, chilling him even more than he already had been.

He remembered the way his heart had pounded in his chest, his anxiety then rapidly transforming into a feeling of disbelief as the man simply cocked his head at him as if he was some fascinating lab experiment, and said, "You could do so much more with your life, Harvey Specter. We need more people like you at the Agency."

"The where?" he had choked out, trying to keep his voice steady but failing.

The man had given him a rather shark-like grin, but replied more gently than Harvey thought was possible, "The CIA. What other agency is there that would allow recruiters to stalk potential candidates on campus? At night. Well, admittedly that's by choice, but it's not quite as much fun during the day."

The Central Intelligence Agency. The CIA. Had been recruiting him. To a young, impressionable law student, who despite having his future and a secure job lined out in front of him, wanted a little more adventure in his life. _"What's life without a little risk?"_ The notion had been instilled into him and his younger brother by his father. It just hadn't ever applied until right then, in that moment.

If he stayed the track, he'd have what, graduated with honors, worked at the firm for twenty years or so, with an immaculate record, then retire some where nice. It was good life. A safe life.

But the CIA. That opened up a whole track, a different route, than anything he could have conceived. Not everyone was approached by one of the most elite intelligence organizations in the world, and offered _more_.

At least, that was how he had seen it then. Now, as tired brown eyes glanced sideways at his bedside clock, which read four AM, he pondered, not for the first time, just how stupid a kid he'd been to believe that risk was worth it. Because he didn't really have a life. He hadn't had one since he had first opened his mouth and lied to Jessica about where he had been on vacation. He hadn't had one since his first mission as a CIA operative. He hadn't had one since he first killed a man. But he was damn good at pretending he did have one. Because that was what he did. Pretend. That was his assignment.

NOC. Non-official cover operative. It was what he'd be classified as. In layman's terms, it just meant that if he was caught during a mission he'd be completely screwed. He had no obvious affiliation with the CIA, and no legal protection. His cover being a lawyer certainly lent it a certain irony, that even he could appreciate.

But while he might have been a lawyer on the outside, on the inside he wasn't. He was a spy first, lawyer second. There was no way he couldn't be, because there was no way he could let his guard down enough. Things like that got better spies than him killed.

The most frustrating part of it though was just the fact that he could tell no one. He couldn't talk to anyone about what he did. What he'd done. What he was _really _capable of. And as much as he was sometimes tempted to demonstrate how to properly torture someone to Louis, if he blew his cover, everything he had worked for the past ten years would be gone. There was no good way it could end well for anyone he came in regular contact with.

It would be a scandal that would ruin the firm's reputation, the CIA's reputation, and him. He'd be shipped off to a secure CIA detention facility faster than he could reassemble his SIG Sauer P228 blindfolded (which was quite fast he was slightly proud to say). Although, honestly that sometimes felt more like something he deserved. Isn't that where all criminals should go? A prison of some sort to think about what they did. What crimes they had committed. Their victims.

Taking a deep breath, and trying to clear his mind from _those_ thoughts, he knew he wouldn't be getting anymore sleep tonight. Maybe he'd work on some briefs. The hour-long lunch break that he had had to take had cut into more than just lunch. Having an associate only helped so much.

Making up his mind, he sat up in the bed, throwing his legs over the side and standing. He stretched, extending his arms above his head until his slightly sore muscles began to burn with the reminder that he wasn't quite as young as he had been. Right after work he had gone to the gym to work out some frustration, and might have overdone it if the way his body was protesting was an indication. He sighed, glancing once more at the blue, glowing numerals on his clock before heading towards the living room.

The large area was still softly lit, as he preferred not to turn out the lights if he didn't have to. If someone ever broke in, he'd be able to actually see them, and fight back. It might have given him more of a tactical advantage to shut them off, as he could fight in the dark extremely well and navigate around his own apartment better than anyone, but you can't exactly see a knife, or gun when you well, can't see. He was good, but not _that_ good.

For the moment, he completely ignored the black duffel bag and gear that he had hastily discarded in his attempt to get from the hotel, back to his apartment, change, then get back to the office within his allotted hour. And run surveillance-detection routes on top of that. It had been a close call, not just time wise too. Donna had noticed that he was wearing a different tie than what he'd worn when he left for lunch, and sardonically asked him if he needed help feeding himself also.

He couldn't quite remember what he fired back at her with, something about how tomato sauce would look quite fetching on her, as his mind had been a little preoccupied and he'd been running on autopilot. It was a defense mechanism. Without it he wouldn't have been able to look anyone in the face.

Because as much as he would have liked to forget about it and push it aside, he had been the one who shot and killed Daniel Dupont in cold blood as he had sipped his expensive coffee, and stared out in wonder at the New York skyline. And that look of wonder would haunt Harvey Specter's dreams for a long time.


End file.
